A/N: Originally written for the Being British fan-fiction class on Mugglenet Fan-Fiction.
John leans back into his seat, shifting his limbs, trying to get settled. He thinks, not for the first time, that perhaps he should have just done away with this whole concept of 'staying undercover.' He had thought that acting as a Muggle and jumping on a plane, as opposed to using Floo Powder, would be a smart option. That it would keep him out of range of suspicion as long as possible.
He should have considered how terribly uncomfortable traveling by plane for seven hours is. Staying undercover or not, his sore muscles were more important.
But it is too late now, so he merely tries to adjust.
He knows that once the flight is over, he won't regret his decision. Traveling from Boston to London as a Muggle will buy him a little time. The Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry in Britain, he knows, which means they are monitoring all wizard-regulated transportation methods. Were he to have traveled by Floo, Portkey, or Apparition, they would have most likely descended upon him like a flash. This way, he would have time to get situated, learn the area. This way, he would meet the Death Eaters on his own terms, when he was ready to fight them.
He shifts again, withdrawing a slightly crinkled photo from his inside pocket. It is a picture of his family: he, his daughter, and his wife, sitting on the grass together after a picnic, smiling, laughing . . . happy.
They are why he is leaving America. Once Voldemort takes over Britain, a feat he is working at right now, it will be the entire world. His family is in no immediate danger at this point, being situated overseas, but he doesn't know how long that will last. And that scares him.
Amelia, his wife, had not wanted him to go, still doesn't want him to go. She begged, yelled, cried, told him to stay. He told her he couldn't, he couldn't stay while their safety hung in such a precarious balance, and he unable to do anything to secure it. He needed to leave.
So he did. Despite her protests, despite her anguish, despite that last look of deep hatred and pain she gave him as he closed their door for the final time, he left.
And here he is now, on his way to Britain.
He lies on his back, coughing blood, clutching at his chest, trying to get back up. Another blast of light hits him in the face, and he is knocked back down again.
A figure clad in dark robes approaches and looms over him: the white mask, though designed to be expressionless, seems to leer at him. "Thought you could beat me, did you?" the Death Eater snarls.
He tries again to get up, but he knows it is pointless. The wand is aimed at his face again as a green spell whizzes his way. John closes his eyes, not wanting to witness it striking him.
Please forgive me for leaving, Amelia. You know I only did it for you.